


On My Mind

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Explicit Language, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash sex, Spoilers, Tragedy, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-12
Updated: 2008-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-30 12:12:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10162787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Harry thought he wanted solitude, but will he find what he really wants when a child's love draws him out of his hermit's life?First fanfiction ever, needed something to write. No beta-- any mistakes are my own. Reviews welcome. Harry Potter and associated characters and concepts are not my property, intellectual or otherwise. Warnings are for later chapters. Early chapters are G.





	1. In Which Harry is Kissed

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Harry palmed a flat stone and skipped it across the surface of the lake absently, his eyes on Georgia as she built a row of mudpies. The sharp note in the air reminded him that summer would soon be over. Georgia's weekends at the lakehouse would come to an end, and with them his few terse conversations with Ron and Hermione. The sudden loneliness chilled Harry to the core.

Georgia, all smiles and curls, was in Harry's lap before he realized she had moved.

"Unca?" Her earnest green eyes met his. "Are you sad?"

He felt goosebumps creeping up her small, freckled arms. "You're cold." Harry found her jacket near the fire pit, and draped it over Georgia's shoulders.

"Am not! Are you sad?" she persisted.

"Yes, Pumpkin. I'm sad because you have only two more weekends with me before you start Kindergarten." While the small girl pondered that revelation, he maneuvered her arms into her jacket sleeves and zipped the garment before she could protest. She was muddy, but no matter. Clothes were easily enough washed, even without electricity or running water at the cabin.

Georgia twisted her orange ringlets around her fingers. Harry pretended to take no notice of the mud, now caking her hair as well as her clothing. The little girl, deep in thought, didn't complain as Harry lifted her on one hip and carried her inside the lakehouse.

As Harry tended the propane stove, Georgia finally spoke.

"Unca, you could come visit me at Kindergarten." 

Harry thought about it. He supposed he could, at that. Hermione had insisted upon sending Georgia to a Muggle school for her elementary years. Hermione wouldn't have her daughter becoming a snob, nor, like Arthur, growing up completely ignorant of science.

It wouldn't be much trouble, thought Harry. He could take a cab to London, straight to Georgia's school, and pick her up after class. She'd be in morning Kindergarten, leaving a half-day for an outing. He'd take her for some ice cream. Maybe to the zoo. She'd make it back to the school grounds in time to leave for home with the afternoon Kindergarten class. He'd never even need to venture into the wizarding parts of London, and it wasn't terribly likely that any of Georgia's classmates would be both of wizarding blood and aware enough of recent history to recognize him.

It'd be a risk, of course. Georgia couldn't see Harry wearing a Glamour, aside from the usual one concealing his scar. He could be recognized, and the coincidence of his accompanying a Weasley child would make it difficult for Harry to feign a case of mistaken identity.

"I'll think about it," he said finally. 

Georgia brightened some at the reply, and more at the foil package set on her plate.

"Don't touch that yet," warned Harry. "Give it a moment to cool."

He gingerly unwrapped the parcel after a few minutes, nudging Georgia's inquisitive nose out of the path of the escaping steam.

"What's this called?" she asked.

"I don't know. There's no name that I know of. It's what I used to eat when I was camping when I was younger. I guess I'd call it Potato Scramble, or something like that," mused Harry. "It's good. There are potatoes, eggs, peppers, tomato, and bacon. Try a bite."

She did, and didn't speak again until she was full to the gills.

"That was good," said Georgia. "Thank you for making dinner."

"You're welcome," replied Harry. "Brush your teeth and get ready for bed while I pick out a bedtime story."

For once, she scuttled to the basin without complaint. It struck Harry how adaptable the little one was. Were all children like this? Georgia maneuvered deftly through three worlds: The wizarding world of her father and his family, the Muggle world, and Harry's hermit's life, lacking the modern conveniences to which she was accustomed when not with her "Unca." Nothing seemed to faze the girl.

Of course, thought Harry, chuckling under his breath, that was no surprise. Georgia was both a Weasley and a Granger, after all. It would be more surprising if she weren't both stubborn and intelligent. 

One tale from the Brothers Grimm later, Georgia snored on her living room cot as loudly as any Weasley brother in the Gryffindor dorms. Harry tucked her in and retreated to the single bedroom.

Sleep didn't come as easily to Harry. He laid awake, staring at the knots in the celing, until the sky had already gone blueish as the sun began to crest the horizon. His dreams, when they came, brought no more peace than did the thoughts circling his mind in his waking hours. He rose shortly after dawn.


	2. In Which Harry Pounds Sand

  
Author's notes: Harry finds solitude increasingly unpleasant.

Still my first fanfiction, characters and all Harry Potter elements still not mine, Georgia still unconscionably cute, warnings still for later chapters.

Anna Marie PotterMalfoy---  
Ask and ye shall receive... and boy, you're quick!  


* * *

Georgia woke in time to breakfast with Harry before Ron and Hermione arrived. He fried bacon and eggs over the camping stove. Harry and the little girl ate together on the chairs at the shore, counting jumping fish in the lake.

All too soon, Ron and Hermione apparated to Harry's door.

"You ought to be on the Floo network," scolded Hermione, not for the first time.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Hello, 'Mione. Hello, Ron."

"'Lo, old chap," said Ron awkwardly, scuffing the toe of his boot across the doorstep and extending a hand for Harry to shake. "Nice visit?"

"Lovely," mumbled Harry, staring at his own feet.

"I caught a fish," bragged Georgia.

Hermione stiffened. "You didn't make her clean it herself, did you, Harry?"

"No."

"But I got to eat it anyway," said Georgia, reaching out to Harry for a lift.

He picked her up. "Oof," gasped Harry. "Such a big girl these days! You grow too fast."

Georgia giggled and delivered a smacking, sucking kiss, the kind only an excited little child can give, to Harry's left cheek.

"Bye, Unca."

"See you next weekend, Pumpkin."

Ron coughed and took Hermione by the hand. "I guess we'll be off, then?"

"Have a safe trip," mumbled Harry.

"See you next time," said Hermione, clutching her daughter's shoulder.

They apparated away, and Harry was again alone with his thoughts. He busied himself with tidying the cabin until there was nothing left to tidy. Then he swam, then he warmed himself by a small fire, and then he laid by the shore on a blanket, painfully aware of how empty the woods and the lake were in Georgia's absence.

Turning on his side and curling his knees to his chest, Harry stared into the distance.

"Poor celebrity," sneered Harry's memory of Snape's voice. "Missing your adoring public?" 

Harry punched the sand, hard. Once for his anger at Snape. Once for his anger at himself. A third time because he knew it was, in part, true, even if Georgia's unconditional love and admiration was the only thing he was actively missing. It was the same thing, really, but more cowardly, because Georgia expected no heroics in exchange for her devotion.

Scrutinizing his scraped knuckles, Harry stood and returned to his cabin. He found a Jane Austen novel among his small collection of paperbacks, and curled in bed with it until well after sunset.

The week passed without incident, save for a great deal of tea-drinking and moping about on Harry's part. Jane Austen helped some, but Georgia, when Friday night came, helped more.

They played hide-and-go-seek, read stories, explored the woods, and Harry let Georgia play with his camera. It tickled Harry to no end that she'd never seen a camera that used Muggle film before. Hermione's parents preferred a digital camera, and Ron and Hermione only had wizarding cameras in the house. Harry promised he'd take the film in to the nearest village for developing before Georgia returned, although he knew he'd mostly get pictures of the ground and maybe the backs of his own knees.

Georgia caught another fish. This time-- mostly because her mother would be upset-- she demanded to clean it herself. Harry compromised: He'd use the knife, but if she could pull hard enough, she could pull out the guts. She pulled hard enough. She found the insides of her fish and the resulting mess more interesting than alarming.

Harry sometimes wondered if Georgia's stable disposition had a bit to do with the circumstances under which she was conceived and carried. After all, having experienced war while still in the womb, it was hardly a shock that she wasn't particularly impressed or intimidated by new experiences. 

Harry made a fish dinner, along with corn on the cob from his garden, and picked at his own food while watching Georgia feast and watch the sun set.

"It's dark awfully early now," he commented, more to himself than to the girl.

"Mm-hmm," said she, around a mouthful of corn.

Too soon again came Sunday afternoon and Georgia's departure, and again Harry lapsed into fits of depression and anger. Again, the voice of his self-loathing was the silky, venomous baritone of his long-dead Potions professor.


	3. In Which Harry Goes to Town.

  
Author's notes: Harry makes a promise he can keep... but reluctantly.

Still first fanfiction, characters still not mine, HP still not mine, warnings still for later chapters. Early chapters G. Reviews appreciated.  


* * *

It rained all week. Harry stayed in until Wednesday, then suddenly remembered the film. On Thursday, he donned a Glamour, a slicker, and galoshes to hike through the woods to the road, then hitched a ride into town.

"Camping?" asked the driver.

"Yeah," said Harry. He sunk deeper into the seat of the lorry and gazed out the window.

"Not really the weather for it, mate."

"That's why I'm going back to town."

"Without your tent?" the driver snuck a glance at Harry, unencumbered by camping gear.

"I'll go back for it. It's all wet."

That seemed to convince the driver, and the rest of Harry's ride to town was silent.

There was a one-hour developer in the village. Harry walked to the pub and had lunch, a hamburger and chips, while waiting for the photos. The burger was greasy and the chips a bit cold, but nevertheless the meal prompted Harry to pop into the market and buy a few pounds of ground beef, along with more bacon and eggs for Georgia. Harry could quite happily live as a pescatarian, but Georgia liked meat and eggs. It was troublesome to store them for long, but they'd keep fresh in the icebox until Saturday. A growing girl needed her protein, after all.

Harry didn't open the envelope containing Georgia's photos. Even a five-year-old deserved some privacy, not to mention the thrill of opening the sealed envelope for the first time.

A middle-aged woman picked Harry up for the ride back to the woods. She stared at him over hornrim glasses, and the memory of Professor McGonagall hit Harry like open heart surgery. He stumbled backward, then laughed his clumsiness away with a remark about the slippery road. She arched an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.

The driver and her passenger sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, it was Harry who spoke. 

"Do you live in town?"

She licked her lips and fiddled with the radio before she answered.

"No," she said finally. "I'm on holiday. I teach school in Cornwall."

"That's nice," said Harry, feeling a bit ill.

"I'll be going back soon," she added. "School starts in a week and a half."

"I know," said Harry, barely more than a whisper.

The teacher glanced away from the road and toward Harry. "Are you not feeling well? You sound a bit hoarse."

Harry shook his head. "No. I'm not feeling well at all. It's probably the rain. I have some..." he covered his hesitation with a cough. "...Old football injuries from university. I get aches in wet weather."

She nodded, twirled the radio dial again, and found only static.

"Do you have a little one, then?" she asked some moments later.

"Huh?"

"You said you know when school starts," said the teacher.

Harry sighed. "Oh, no, not mine. I have a niece starting Kindergarten."

"Not in Cornwall, by chance? I teach Kindergarten." 

"No. London."

"Ah, too bad. It's such a nice age."

"Yeah," sighed Harry, and lapsed again into silence.

Harry gazed out the window until he spotted the mile marker near the path back to his lakehouse.

"Could you let me off up here?" he asked.

The teacher pulled over. "Camping?" she asked.

This time, Harry didn't lie. "No, I have a cabin here."

"Lovely!" She clapped her hands, seeming genuinely impressed. "Someday I'd like a vacation house near here. The woods are so nice in the summer."

"Thanks for the ride," mumbled Harry shyly.

"No trouble at all, dear." She smiled and drove away, leaving Harry and his groceries to the long walk home.

He stood there for a long while, watching the car disappear down the narrow road. The path, and the cabin at its end, seemed even lonelier prospects than before. The ache in Harry's stomach showed no signs of abating as he turned for home.

Harry woke the next morning to sun and the loamy smell of moss after a long rain. As he stretched and yawned, he noticed the absence of pain, and a moment later, a knock at his door.

Had he really slept through both the morning and the afternoon?

It seemed so. Hermione and Ron stood on the stoop, and Georgia, clutching a satchel of clothes, appeared poised to knock again when Harry finally opened the door, rumpled and bleary-eyed.

"Having a lie-in?" asked Georgia.

"Yeah." Harry scratched his head and blinked out at the lake's smooth surface. "Could be the last warm Friday of the year, Pumpkin. Fancy a swim before it gets dark?"

Georgia answered by nudging past Harry and dashing into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

"I expect she's changing into her bathing suit," said Harry, conscious of Hermione's critical gaze.

"I'll talk with her about her manners before I leave," Hermione responded.

"No, she's really good. She thanks me for every meal. She's just excited." Harry straightened up, as if to fill the doorway and defend Georgia from her mother's scolding.

Ron interrupted the standoff, clearing his throat. "Our dinner reservations, dear?"

Georgia emerged in a purple bathing suit with all the earmarks of a garment handmade by her paternal grandmother, including a large "G" on the front. 

"Bye mum, dad," she waved, wrapping her arms around Harry's leg. "You change now."

"See you Sunday," said Harry, feeling a lump rise in his throat. "And after that..."

"Always next year, old boy," said Ron, full of false cheer.

"Be good, Georgia," warned Hermione, as she and Ron apparated away.

Harry and Georgia swam and splashed. She could propel herself through the shallow water quite well for her age, and, with the orange floatation devices Harry strapped to her arms, Georgia even ventured into the water deep enough she couldn't touch the bottom. She giggled as fish brushed by her legs.

"Unca, can we catch them?" she asked.

"No. Those fish are too small." 

She frowned. "Can we chase them?"

They chased the fish.

When the sun set, Harry carried a reluctant Georgia out of the lake and set her down, wrapped in a towel, next to the fire pit. He built a small fire and grilled hamburgers. He'd forgotten buns, so they sandwiched the meat between slices of bread. This suited Georgia just fine, as did most everything Harry had suggested in her short life.

There was no need for a story that night. By the time she finished her dinner, the little girl was already nodding off. Harry took pity on her and allowed her to put off toothbrushing until morning. She was asleep before Harry finished tucking her in.

Harry pulled up a dining chair, sat, and watched Georgia draw peaceful breaths as the orange moon appeared in the West. By the time the moon was directly overhead, Harry, too, was tired.

For once, Harry slept dreamlessly and woke feeling rested. The feeling didn't last long.

Georgia asked over breakfast, "Will you come see me at school?"

"I'll... try," said Harry slowly, busying himself with salting his scrambled eggs much too heavily.

She crossed her arms and kicked her chair. "Promise."

Harry smiled.

Remorseful, she added, "Please."

"That's my girl." 

"So you promise?" 

"I didn't say that."

Harry surreptitiously scraped his scrambled eggs into the compost bin.

"I don't want to wait until next summer to see you, Unca," pouted Georgia.

He shooed her toward the washbasin. "Wash up."

"Promise!" pleaded Georgia. "Promise you'll come visit, at least once."

Once during the whole school year. Once in nine months. Harry could do that, he thought. They didn't have to go very far. Even just to sit in a park. 

"Fine," he sighed. "I promise at least once during the school year, I will come to London, pick you up from school, and take you out for the afternoon, but you will need to be back to school to go home with afternoon Kindergarten."

Georgia, even at five, knew she wouldn't win an argument that involved asking Harry to her parents' house. "Okay!"

She hurried to wash her face and brush her teeth, then helped Harry with the breakfast dishes.


	4. In Which Harry Toads the Line

  
Author's notes: Georgia spends her last Saturday at the lakehouse for the year.

Still new to fanfic. Reviews still awesome. Warnings still for later chapters-- this is still G and will be for some time yet.   


* * *

Georgia caught two fish Saturday, and helped Harry to gut both. She also caught a toad in Harry’s garden. To the child’s great disappointment, Harry did not allow her to keep it as a pet. She was consoled, however, by permission to keep it for a couple of hours in a large Tupperware carton from Harry’s kitchen. They poked holes in the lid and bedded the toad down on a thin layer of bark and moss. A jar lid served for a water dish.

“What does he eat?” asked Georgia. She flopped onto the floor on her stomach, making eye contact with the bewildered toad.

“Insects, mostly,” guessed Harry. 

Georgia lifted a corner of the carton lid to gently poke the toad. “Can we feed him?”

“Sure.”

They dug for worms, and Georgia became so completely covered in mud that Harry was forced to heat water for a bath. The toad shot his sticky tongue out to snatch each worm in turn. Georgia was duly impressed.  
“He’s fast!” 

“He has to be. That’s how he gets his dinner,” said Harry from the bathroom as he filled the claw-foot tub with warm water. “Come on, bath time.”

“I don’t want a bath yet,” complained Georgia  
.   
“If you take a bath now, you may keep the toad overnight, and we’ll let him go in the morning,” offered Harry. Moments later, Georgia burst into the bathroom, shedding clothes as she went, and bounced into the tub with a splash.

Harry wiped his glasses on his shirt. “Silly.”

Georgia giggled and splashed Harry again.

“Enough of that,” scolded Harry, though his heart wasn’t in it. “Can you bathe by yourself, or do you need help?”  
“I can do it.”

Harry handed Georgia soap and shampoo. “Don’t forget behind your ears,” he cautioned.

He sat outside the bathroom with a book and listened to Georgia blowing bubbles in the tub. Eventually, the girl emerged, wrapped in a towel. Harry scooped her up and deposited her on her cot.

“Socks,” he said, handing her a clean pair from her satchel.  
Georgia put them on as Harry set out pants, trousers, and a t-shirt on the cot. While she dressed, Harry wrapped the fish in foil and built a fire. By the time Georgia ventured outside, damp curls clinging to her cheeks, the smell of roasting fish already permeated the evening air.

Hearing little footsteps, Harry turned to smile at Georgia. “Look, aren’t the clouds pretty?”

She clambered onto his lap and poked at the parcels of fish with a stick. Harry gently batted her hand away from the fire and tucked her curls behind her ears.

“How’s my toad?” she asked.

“It’s fine, last I checked,” said Harry. He tried to stop his mind from wandering to the future, but it was too late. Harry found himself wondering if Georgia would have a toad familiar at Hogwarts.

He shook his head vigorously. No. She might be a squib. She might not want a magical education. He didn’t even know if she’d shown any innate ability yet. Besides, he was supposed to be a Muggle! What if the child was a natural legilimens and discovered thoughts of Hogwarts floating around Harry’s mind in her presence? Harry chided himself furiously for the slip. His fists clenched, fingernails digging into his palm over I must not tell lies.

Ever observant, Georgia patted Harry’s cheek. “What’s wrong, Unca? The fish is going to burn if you don’t turn it.”  
Harry jumped at the child’s touch. “Sorry. Lost in thought.” He reached for the tongs and turned the fish, looking out at the sun setting over the lake.

“You got all stiff,” pried Georgia. “Why?”

“I’m nervous about visiting you in London,” said Harry.  
“Why?”

“Because I have lived out here for so long that I’m not used to cities anymore.”

“London is nice. There are all kinds of shops,” enthused Georgia. “You’ll like it.”

Harry laughed. “What’s your favorite kind of shop?”

She thought for a moment. “I like pet shops.”

“Well,” said Harry, “I can’t get you a pet, but we could go to a pet shop and look at the animals, if you like. Only if you promise you won’t beg your parents for a pet because I took you to a pet shop, though.”

“Okay,” said Georgia. “What else can we do?”  
“We can eat dinner,” said Harry firmly, and presented the child with a plate of fish and vegetables. “Then we can go to bed, and we will talk more about my visiting you when your parents arrive to take you home. I need their permission.”  
Georgia scowled, but acquiesced.


	5. In Which the Plot Thickens. Also, Harry Has Flavorful Tomatoes.

  
Author's notes: Hermione and Ron have lunch at Harry's place, and Harry asks permission to visit Georgia at school. 

Characters not mine in any way, claiming no rights whatsoever. Still new to fanfic. Warnings still for later chapters. This chapter still G.  


* * *

As Harry bustled about the cabin Sunday morning, he was shocked to find himself eagerly anticipating Ron’s knock on the door. He had it all planned out. Georgia gladly cut short her morning swim in order to help Harry prepare lunch for four. On tip-toes, she carefully set the table.

“Unca?” asked Georgia as Harry pondered the feasibility of frying fish and chips over the propane stove.

“Yes?”

“Did you always have a table?”

Harry laughed. “Did you think we always eat outside because I didn’t have a table?”

“Well, kind of.” Georgia chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully.

“No, silly girl.” Harry tweaked one of Georgia’s curls. She giggled and slapped him away. “We eat outside because we like to watch the fish and have a fire in the evening.”

“Oh.” 

She thought for a moment.

“Don’t Mum and Dad want to watch the fish jump?”

Harry sighed, taking his time in phrasing an age-appropriate response. “No, Georgia, I think they would rather sit inside out of the sun. Besides, when adults need to ask other adults important questions, they usually do so in a more traditional setting. Discussing something over lunch is traditional, but it might seem rude to expect them to eat outdoors instead of inviting them in to sit at a table.”

“Well,” said Georgia, “I think it’s rude to expect someone to eat at a table on a sunny day when there are fish to watch outside!”

Harry chuckled and handed Georgia a stack of napkins.

“That may be, but they’ll just have to watch the fish on their plates,” said Harry, heating a pan of oil.

In the end, the fish and chips turned out remarkably decently, considering the circumstances and Harry’s sparse cupboards. He managed to throw together a garden salad at the last minute from the small plot behind the cabin, realizing that Hermione would likely have something to say about it if she saw Georgia served a meal without vegetables.

When the cooking was finished, there followed a mercifully few tense minutes of anticipation before Ron and Hermione arrived. Harry sat in the living room to wait. Georgia, sensing his mood, clambered onto his lap for a cuddle. Soon enough, there were footsteps, then a knock.

Harry set Georgia gently on the floor. He stood, straightened his shirt, and strode toward the door, fists clenched.

“Hello, Ron, Hello, Hermione,” said Harry. “Would you like to come in and join me for lunch? I’ve cooked fish and chips, and there’s a fresh salad. My tomatoes are in season.”

Ron looked startled. Hermione opened her mouth and turned away from the door, as if ready to make an excuse. Dinner reservations, probably. Ron spoke before she could, and Harry immediately felt a bit guilty for presuming Hermione was about to talk her way out of staying.

“We’d be delighted, right, Hermione?” said Ron, giving Harry a firm handshake.

Gone were the days, thought Harry, of Hermione elbowing Ron in the ribs to stop him from making a rude remark. He shook off the nostalgia. Harry knew he had a role to play if he wanted permission to be seen in public, with Georgia, picking her up from a Muggle school.

“Excellent! I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from something important,” said Harry. “May I take your hat?” This last was addressed to Hermione, who sported a broad-brimmed creation that would protect a rhinoceros from sunburn.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, with forced composure. She handed him the hat. He placed it in the closet near the door.

“Please, have a seat,” said Harry. “Georgia, you sit as well. Thank you for setting the table so nicely.”

Georgia beamed. Sitting next to Hermione, she immediately launched into an excited monologue about the worms in Harry’s garden. Harry raised an eyebrow, deciding to bring the fish and chips out first.

“…And when I helped plant the radishes before, the trowel cut one in half!” Georgia bragged as Harry set the fish and chips on the table.

Harry spoke up before she could elaborate further. “Now, no worries, she’s washed her hands, and the salad’s completely worm-free!” His ears reddened as he hurried back to the kitchen for the salad. Completely worm-free? What was that supposed to be? A sales pitch? Harry thought wistfully of a time when Ron would have responded by comparing worms favorably to salad, and demanding to know where the pudding was.

Harry set out the salad and serving utensils. “Here we are. I’m afraid that I didn’t have any dressing, but I whipped some up from a recipe. I haven’t tried it yet. I hope it’s all right.” He took his seat and placed his napkin on his lap. 

He felt suffocated by the pretense of formality, by pretending he was dining with strangers, but a bashful smile from Georgia strengthened his resolve. He served himself a helping of fish, some chips, and a portion of salad. The dressing was remarkably tolerable.

“Your tomatoes are very flavorful,” said Hermione. “Do you do anything special with them?”

“Thanks,” said Harry, dabbing with his napkin at a spot of dressing that had migrated to Georgia’s cheek. “I actually got the seeds from the market in town. It’s an heirloom variety. I got a few packets, since I don’t get into the village terribly often. Do you garden? I have extra.”

“Oh, that’s all right. I don’t know if I’d use them. I’ve thought of renting a plot at the community garden, but I was just too busy this spring,” said Hermione.

“So, what’s the occasion?” asked Ron. 

Almost like the old, tactless Ron.

“Can’t Harry be hospitable?” asked Hermione, giving Ron an almost-like-the-old-Hermione dirty look.

Harry cleared his throat, which, for some reason, suddenly felt all tight and lumpy. “Actually, there is an occasion. I’ve got a favor to ask of you both.”

Georgia fidgeted in her chair and tugged her curls.

“Ah, go right ahead, mate.” Ron’s face clouded over, and Harry’s school chum was gone again. He looked to be anticipating… what, exactly? A plea for money? Since when did anyone ask Ron to lend them money?

“I’d like to visit Georgia sometime during the school year. I could pick her up from Kindergarten and take her around town, get some sweets, play at the park, for a few hours, then put her on the bus with afternoon Kindergarten.” Harry swallowed hard. “You can pick any date, and just tell her teacher that her uncle Harry will be picking her up. Send a signed note. I just don’t want to wait until next summer to see my niece again.”

Georgia piped up with, “Please, Mum and Dad? Unca said we could have ice cream!” She planted a pleading stare that would melt the polar ice caps on Ron.

Harry couldn’t help but grin. Five was old enough to know who the soft touch in the family was, apparently.

“Georgia?” Hermione patted her daughter’s shoulder. “Dear, would you mind going out to the garden and, with Uncle Harry’s permission, picking about three nice, ripe tomatoes for me? I’d love to take a few home with us. You don’t mind, do you, Harry?”

“No, not at all,” Harry replied. He nodded at Georgia, who flounced out the door a little too quickly. Sharp kid, that one, thought Harry.

As soon as the door slammed shut, Hermione turned to Harry and hissed, “Have you lost your mind?!”

Harry took a deep breath and prepared for the inquisition.


	6. In Which Harry Disappoints Hermione

  
Author's notes: Harry makes his case to Hermione and Ron, and more than a few hints about the plot are dropped. Stay tuned: This one's full of hints, and in the next chapter (coming very soon) someone is introduced who you'll be very interested in seeing...

Still new to fanfic, still not my characters, story, or anything HP-related, still G-rated for now, rating and warnings still for later chapters. If you hadn't guessed yet, this fic will be a long one. Reviews appreciated and reviewers will be sent many air-kisses through the intertubes.  


* * *

“Going into the middle of London, without a Glamour, in broad daylight, to pick up Georgia Weasley from Kindergarten? Are you trying to get arrested?” Hermione had gone quite red in the face. “If the danger to you weren’t enough, you might at least think of the embarrassment to Georgia!”

“Calm down,” said Harry wearily. “I’ve thought this through. Do you think I’d suggest it if I thought I would be arrested?”

“How exactly do you plan to avoid it?” asked Hermione.

Harry sighed. “Look, I’ll stick to busy, Muggle parts of London, where nobody would notice me in the crowd. I already hide my scar, and I’ll wear a beanie cap and an overcoat.”

“Oh, that’s dandy,” said Ron, “So instead of a fugitive, you’ll look like a kidnapping pedophile?”

Harry laughed in spite of himself at Ron’s awkward joke.

“That’s a risk I’m prepared to take,” chuckled Harry.

Hermione didn’t seem to be in on the joke. “Well, I’m not prepared to take that risk with Georgia.” She crossed her arms and frowned.

“Hermione,” began Ron.

“No, it’s okay, Ron,” said Harry. Turning to Hermione, he continued, “I haven’t done any magic at all for over four years. The last spell done to my person was the concealment on my forehead, and that was your wand. I’ll take a cab to London to keep it that way, so my magical signature won’t alert anyone. I’ll have Georgia introduce me as her uncle Harold Granger, and I’ll avoid talking where anyone can hear me. I’ll tell Georgia I’ve caught a cold and I’m a bit hoarse, so she’ll have to talk for me.

“All you’d have to do is send a note with her for her teacher, saying she’ll be picked up from school by Harold Granger and that they can call you to confirm you sent the note.”

Hermione opened her mouth to interrupt.

“Wait,” said Harry. “Listen, I know you’re going to say, ‘What if?’ I’ve thought of that too. I’ll be well enough concealed that there’s no danger, but just in case the unthinkable happens, all you have to do is make sure I have a portkey to send Georgia straight home. Send her something to give me. Say, an old key, or a little figurine. Something that won’t interest her much. Give it to her in a plastic bag, and tell her not to open the bag. I’ll take it and put it in my coat pocket. If there is any sign of danger whatsoever, I will send her straight home.”

Harry sat back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head, confident that he’d thought of everything. But before Ron or Hermione could speak, there was one thing left to say.

“Please. I don’t want to wait until next summer. She means everything… everything in the world to me.”

Hermione’s face softened. Harry knew the pain he felt at the thought of nine long months without Georgia was written all over his body. It seemed his old friends weren’t completely without sympathy for his plight.

“How would you contact us if something went wrong and you can’t make it to pick her up?” asked Hermione, much more gently than before. 

Harry smiled and pulled a gold coin from his pocket.

“Dumbledore’s Army!” exclaimed Ron, clapping his hands. “Jolly good! I’ve kept mine, too.”

“They still work,” said Harry. “And they don’t require me to use magic. If I can’t come or I’m stopped somehow before I’ve got there, I’ll send my birthday. 31-7-1980. If there’s an emergency, I’ll send Georgia home  
and send 999 with the coin. When I pick her up from school successfully I’ll send your birthday, Hermione, and when I drop her off, I’ll send Ron’s.”

Hermione sighed heavily. Ron took her hand and squeezed it. 

“He has a right to see her,” admitted Ron.

“No,” said Harry. “I gave that right up. I know what my choices mean. I don’t have a right. But I want to see her.”

“It does seem you’ve thought of everything,” said Hermione. “Okay. Ron, if it’s all right with you, I think Harry should pick her up from school two weeks from Wednesday. That gives us time to do the same a couple times, take her out for the afternoon and let her take the afternoon Kindergarten bus home, so she’ll be used to it and know the driver.”

Harry’s heart leapt. “Thank you, Hermione. I promise you won’t regret trusting me with her.” He reached across the table and wrung Ron’s hand heartily. “And you, Ron, thank you.”

Ron looked around. “Does it strike you as odd that Georgia hasn’t tried to come in yet?”

Harry laughed. “Want to bet she’s found her toad again?”

“What toad?” asked Hermione.

“Oh,” said Harry, “She didn’t tell you? Uh-oh.” He patted Hermione on the shoulder, the friendliest gesture she’d allowed from him in years. “I think we need to talk about her future familiar. I know you’re probably hoping she’ll want a cat, but try not to be too disappointed…”

Together, the trio strode outside to find Georgia. As predicted, she had a lap full of toad, and no tomatoes.


	7. In Which Harry Plays Dress-Down

  
Author's notes: Harry plans his journey and heads for Georgia's school. The "next chapter" turned out longer than I anticipated, so it's split in two: The interesting fellow you'll all like to meet is in the next one.

Characters, universe, etc., still not my property, intellectual or otherwise. Still G-rated for now. Still going to be a long-arse fic. Warnings still for later chapters. Reviewers appreciated and sent imaginary cookies and milk.  


* * *

Two weeks and two days passed more quickly than Harry expected. It helped that it took some time and effort to plan a long journey by cab without the benefit of a telephone, a credit card, or a home address. It took hitching a ride to the village again, using a pay telephone, and calling several car services before Harry found one that would agree to pick him up in front of the grocer’s in the village and take him to London.

Then there was the matter of clothing. Harry visited a tailor first, but found that any items made to fit would seem very much out of character for Georgia’s shabby country uncle. The last thing he wanted was to stand out. The second-hand store, however, suited Harry perfectly. He found a drab grey overcoat about a half size too large, a pair of khaki trousers, and some slightly scuffed leather shoes. 

Thus outfitted, Harry suited the role of dull relative from out of town perfectly. If there was one thing he’d learned from his years in the wizarding world, it was that most people don’t notice anything that’s not begging to be noticed. He had a wool beanie at home. With its addition, and while wearing his contact lenses, he’d hardly look a thing like Harry Potter. 

Harry practiced a scratchy voice and a dry cough. Soon, he was confident that his excuse of laryngitis would be believable, and that even his former acquaintances wouldn’t recognize his voice if he did have to speak.

Lacking a mirror, Harry practiced his posture and a few canned lines while gazing at his reflection in the lake.

“I’m Harold Granger, how do you do?”

“I’ve got a bit of laryngitis, but I wouldn’t want to disappoint Georgia by not coming for our visit today.”

“I live in Devonshire, but I’m taking a short holiday to see my family here in London.”

“No, no children of my own. I’m afraid I’m a chronic bachelor.”

“I’m Harold Granger. Georgia Weasley is my niece. I believe you’ve got a note authorizing me to pick her up from school today, correct?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t chat now. I’m awfully hoarse.”

By the time he finished rehearsing Tuesday night, Harry really was hoarse. He went to bed early and rose in the wee hours of the morning to make the hike to the road and hitch a ride into the village. The car service was right on time, and Harry was relieved to find that the driver spoke very little English.

There was even time to catch a few winks on the long drive to London, and Harry found himself being woken by the driver in no time. He paid his bill, left a generous tip, and confirmed that another cab would collect him in the evening.

Harry stood outside the ice cream parlor, about a mile from Georgia’s school, and inhaled the smoggy London air with a smile. Who would have guessed that he’d missed the city so much? The thought of seeing Georgia soon put a spring in Harry’s step even as he turned his face toward the pavement and turned up his collar, blending in with the commotion of lunchtime in London.

He bought real fish and chips, in a newspaper cone, as he walked leisurely toward the school. There was a half hour yet before Georgia would be released from class. Harry spied a park and found a bench. He sat and ate his lunch, tossing a few chips to the pigeons pecking at the ground near his feet. The park had a playground, noticed Harry, who made a mental note to stop back with Georgia. She’d need to burn off some energy after the school day.

With several minutes to spare, Harry strolled into the schoolyard at Knightsley Day School and into the main office. He gave his well-rehearsed cough, announcing his presence to the plump secretary shuffling papers behind a desk.

“Excuse me,” he said, tapping his throat, “I apologize, I’m a bit hoarse. I’m Harold Granger, here to pick up my niece Georgia Weasley. I trust you’ve got a note from her parents and are expecting me?”

The secretary peered over her glasses at Harry, looking him up and down. “Yes, I think the Weasleys sent a note with Georgia this morning. One moment.” She rifled through a filing cabinet, and produced an envelope addressed in Hermione’s neat script.

“Here it is,” said the secretary. “Yes, it says you’ll be collecting Georgia from Kindergarten today, and that she’ll ride home on the afternoon bus. Is that correct?”

Harry nodded and coughed into his hand. “Yes.”

The secretary hung a lanyard around Harry’s neck. “This is your visitor’s pass. Miss Cambridge’s classroom is number 107, down the hallway to your right as you walk toward the cafeteria from here. If she’s still instructing, please wait in the hall until you see that class has been let out.”

Harry nodded and thanked the woman for her help, then hurried down the hall. Try as he might to be unimposing and bland, Harry couldn’t force himself to walk slowly when Georgia was waiting for him, excited to see him, at the end of the hall.

He saw her immediately. Class was just letting out, and she was holding a piece of construction paper in one hand, and a classmate’s cap in the other. She was tall for five, and the smaller girl couldn’t reach Georgia’s outstretched hand. As Harry approached, Georgia’s friend stomped a foot and crossed her arms.

Harry scooped Georgia up in his arms. She uttered a squeal of delight and planted a kiss on his cheek. Her little friend looked up at Harry like a frightened puppy.

“Unca!” cried Georgia, and threw her arms around his neck. “You’re here!”

Harry tweaked Georgia’s cheek and took the cap from her hand. “Now,” he said in his raspy voice, “You mustn’t be a bully.” He returned the rainbow hat to its owner before slinging Georgia on his hip like a toddler and carrying her back into the classroom.

Miss Cambridge was erasing the chalkboard, with one watchful eye observing the children collecting their belongings and heading down the hall.

“You must be ‘Unca,’” guessed Georgia’s teacher. “Georgia told about you in Show and Tell today. She said she visits you at your home every weekend in the summer.”

Harry set Georgia down.

“Yes,” he said, with a cough, “That’s right. I’m sorry, I don’t have much of a voice today. I didn’t want to disappoint my niece by staying home, and I don’t think I’m contagious.”

Miss Cambridge gave a guarded, sympathetic smile. “There’s a nasty bug going around. Always is at back-to-school time. I trust you’ve already had the worst of it?”

“It was pretty awful,” lied Harry. “I was laid up Sunday and Monday.”

The teacher tutted appreciatively. “Well, I’m sure you two have plans. I’ll let you be off before you waste more of your voice.”

Harry smiled and waved, taking Georgia’s hand.

“Where to first?” asked Georgia. “Can we go to the pet shop and see toads and snakes?”

“Whatever you’d like, Pumpkin,” said Harry, basking in the warmth of the little girl’s smile. He reached in his pocket for the DA coin and sent Hermione’s birthday to Ron.

He’d found the nearest pet shop using the Internet at the village library. It was within walking distance of school. Harry supposed this was intentional. They strolled two blocks East, Georgia clutching Harry’s hand tightly as she skipped and bounced along.

The shop had toads. Enormous toads, the size of Georgia’s head, which thrilled her to no end. She pressed her nose to the glass of a large snake’s enclosure. Harry twitched, beset by an uncomfortable flashback to his own first use of magic. Luckily, the glass remained intact, and the snake said nothing to Harry or to Georgia.

Harry counted his blessings and was careful to remain silent as a stone until they left the corner where snakes were sold. He hadn’t thought of what might happen if he accidentally spoke Parseltongue while with Georgia. It was good luck, then, that an employee chose to change the largest toad’s water dish when he did. The open cage and chance at holding a big toad summoned Georgia from across the room, and Harry was only too glad to follow her.

She did get to hold the toad, with Harry’s permission. Georgia clearly regarded the store’s employee as an expert in all things toad. She was awestruck at the news that the toad was called a Pacman Frog, and that it could eat mice. Harry watched with a faint smile for a few minutes before rescuing the worker from Hurricane Georgia’s rapid-fire questioning. 

“Time to wash your hands and get a bite to eat,” said Harry with a cough. She acquiesced with a minimum of groaning.


	8. In Which Harry Admires a Rump

  
Author's notes: Okay, here we are: Harry meets a very important character. If you're paying attention (more attention than Harry) you'll all know this fine fellow's secret. If you don't yet, don't fret. We'll see plenty of him next chapter as well.

Characters, settings, universe, wizards, not mine, although I'd gladly take a few off JKR's hands, if she had too many. Still G-rated... for now. Still my first fanfic. Reviewers patted on the head and given warm bread pudding through intertubes.  


* * *

Harry and Georgia sat on the same park bench where Harry had eaten his late breakfast. Georgia devoured a sandwich, pausing only for Harry to dab her face with a napkin. When she’d finished her meal and a juice box, Georgia, started in on Harry.

“Why are you coughing?”

“I have a cold,” said Harry.

“I thought you hardly ever get sick because of the fresh air in the country?”

“I’m not in the country now. I’m visiting you in London.”

“You told Miss Cambridge you were sick Sunday and Monday,” accused Georgia.

“I was. I was sick with worry that something might go wrong to stop me from visiting you,” said Harry truthfully. “Enough questions. Go play on the monkey bars.”

“I want you to push me on the swings.”

“All right.”

Harry walked Georgia to the swings. Another man was playing with a girl about Georgia’s age, pushing her high and running under her legs as she swung back.

“Do that!” begged Georgia, pointing.

“Don’t point,” said Harry reflexively. He laughed under his breath. He was turning into Hermione!

As Harry pushed Georgia, he found his eyes wandering to the other man with his little girl. She must attend school with Georgia, but perhaps she was a year or two older. Georgia didn’t seem to recognize the raven-haired girl as a classmate. Then again, she’d only been in school for two weeks. Maybe she didn’t know every girl in Kindergarten yet.

Her relative was tall and rosy-cheeked, a sharp contrast to the girl’s ivory complexion. His hair was tawny, his eyes ice blue. He had a hearty laugh and a wide grin that revealed a missing canine tooth. Harry wondered foolishly if the tooth had been knocked out by a Bludger. He caught himself and shook his head, feeling his ears turn warm and pink.

“Does your daughter attend Knightsley Primary?” asked the other man.

Harry’s blush extended to his cheeks. He shook his head again, confused. Why was he blushing at such a simple question? He felt like a first-year at Hogwarts again. Was he really so far removed from society as to become tongue-tied when attempting to converse with one stranger at a playground?

“Oh, she’s actually my niece,” rasped Harry. “But yes, she’s in Kindergarten at Knightsley. I presume your daughter is as well?”

“First grade,” said the man. “I know she ought to be in class, but we’re leaving soon to visit family, so I wrote her an excuse for the afternoon. Best to get some playing in before my six-year-old’s stuck in a car all evening, right?”

“Right,” said Harry. “Sorry about my voice. I’ve got that back-to-school cold going around.”

“Ah.” The man clucked his tongue and frowned. “I haven’t caught it yet, but I’m sure I will. Serena’s teacher was out sick last Thursday. I’m Brendan, by the way. Brendan Fengel, and my daughter is Serena Fengel.” Brendan extended his right hand.

Harry shook it. “I’m Harold, and my niece is Georgia.” He didn’t volunteer a surname, and Brendan didn’t ask for one. Instead, Serena interrupted.

“Papa? Can I play on the jungle gym now?” She turned to ask the question, and Harry noticed that Serena had her father’s eyes. 

The resemblance ended there. Even at six, Serena had stern features, and the gangly proportions of a stork. Her hair was straight, and fell around her face as frozen there. Her father’s was a wavy, sandy mess. She was lean, while her father sported a small paunch and a muscular chest. She giggled as enthusiastically as Brendan laughed, but ran to the jungle gym an awkward tangle of lanky legs. She looked far more studious, and less athletic, than her beaming papa.

Georgia turned to Harry. Before she could ask the question, he nodded.

“Go ahead, go play with Serena. I’ll watch from here.” Harry took a seat on one of the swings, bobbling it back and forth as he watched Georgia and Serena climb together.

Brendan sat next to Harry. “My posterior’s gotten a little large for these,” he said.

“Considering they’re made for primary school children, I can see why,” said Harry.

Brendan threw back his head and guffawed. “Yes, I suppose so, Harold!”

“It wasn’t that funny,” said Harry, blushing again. He was aware even as he spoke of the petulant teenager creeping into his voice, which only served to embarrass him more.

“You give yourself too little credit,” grinned Brendan. “Here I am complaining I’m too fat to fit into the swing my six-year old was just using. What say we relocate to the benches? It’s not much farther than the girls, and I’m a lot less likely to whinge about the size of my arse on a bench.”

Brendan rose and headed for the nearby benches. Harry followed like a puppy, taking deep breaths and hoping for his blush to fade. He was almost cross-eyed with confusion. His social skills must have taken far more of a beating in five years of hermitage than Harry had thought. A simple conversation now appeared beyond his reach. 

It was lucky, thought Harry, that the first stranger to strike up a conversation was as good-natured as Brendan. If he’d run into someone with the personality of, say, Severus Snape, he’d have really been in trouble. 

Harry snapped out of his navel-gazing reverie with a jolt. Brendan had tapped him on the shoulder.

“You all right, Harold?” asked Brendan.

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m sorry. I was just thinking that I haven’t been to London in a long time,” said Harry. 

“Is that so? Do you live in the country, then?”

“Yes,” said Harry simply. For some reason, the carefully practiced lie about Devonshire escaped him.

There was a long pause. Brendan crossed and uncrossed his legs, and whistled a tune.

“Do you see your niece often, living outside the city?” asked Brendan, breaking the awkward silence.

“In the summer, yes.” Harry folded his arms behind his head and leaned back on the bench, staring at a cloud. “I don’t see much of her in the winter, but I’m hoping to visit more often this year.”

On the playground, Georgia chased Serena around the jungle gym and onto the monkey bars. Their yells and laughter made Harry smile. He could easily watch Georgia play all day here, just like at the lake.

“That’s nice. It’s good for children to have more members of their family involved in their lives than just their parents,” mused Brendan. “Serena doesn’t see her extended family very often. She’s looking forward to seeing her grandmother on this trip.”

“Georgia has a large family, and they’re nearly all in London. She’s lucky that way, as are her parents. There are plenty of babysitters!” Harry found himself growing more comfortable with Brendan and his disarming, familiar conversational style.

Brendan and Harry watched the girls play for several minutes more. This time, the silence was more comfortable than awkward. Harry felt a smile ghost across his lips. Was this what making a friend was like? He’d almost forgotten how to meet someone new like this, casually, socially, without fear or pressure.

“Bollocks!” exclaimed Brendan, looking at his watch. “ You’ll have to excuse me, Harold. We’re going to be late for the train if we don’t get a move on. I didn’t realize I’d been her for so long.”

Harry rose from the bench. “I should be going as well,” he said. “Georgia needs to catch the bus with the afternoon Kindergarten class.”

Brendan wrung Harry’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I think Serena and Georgia really hit it off. What say we get them together for another play date?”

Harry froze mid-handshake. He didn’t want to refuse outright and deprive Georgia of a new friend, but he couldn’t give a date or a time.

“Have I been too forward?” asked Brendan, withdrawing his hand and pocketing it.

“No, no,” mumbled Harry, “It’s just that I don’t know when, ah, work will let me off during the week again to see Georgia. The thing is, too, you know, I don’t know if Serena could meet up with Georgia and myself, because Georgia has to take the afternoon bus home. My sister and brother-in-law are very strict about her getting home no later than that, and they want her to take the school bus, for social development…” Harry rambled, realizing he was making up excuse after excuse off the cuff.

Brendan cut him off. “Say no more, Harold. We don’t need to set anything in stone, but maybe you can give me a ring if you’ll be here in the afternoon again, and I’ll see what can’t be done about bringing Serena to the park for lunchtime. Would you like me to put my number in your mobile?”

Harry blushed furiously.

“I sound like a country bumpkin saying this, but I don’t have a mobile. Or a phone at all.” Harry stared at his shoes and kicked a pebble.

“Oh. Hmm.” Brendan was taken aback. After a moment’s thought, he tried again. “An address, then? You could write me. Or perhaps I should ring Georgia’s parents?”

“Well, I could write you,” conceded Harry. “I’m afraid the return address will just be a post office box. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You really do live in the country,” said Brendan with a chuckle. “Here’s my business card. Write when you want to have a play date for the girls. I run my own business, so I can close up shop for the day whenever I like.”

Harry pocketed the card. “Thanks, Brendan. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Brendan, and strode off in Serena’s direction. Harry stood for a moment watching the older man walk away, noting that Brendan’s posterior was not at all unsightly, no matter how poorly it fit into children’s swings.


	9. In Which Harry Spends Much Time Feeling Sorry for Himself

  
Author's notes: Harry is upset when a stranger recognizes symptoms of Harry's PTSD and calls him out on it. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Sorry this story was abandoned for a while-- Long story short, the computer with all my notes was borrowed, I had to give it back, and I didn't get my notes back until now. This is still my first fanfic, it's still gonna be LONG, and I WILL still finish it. Please continue to be gentle, and remember the rating + warnings are for planned future chapters. This one is mostly Harry-angst.

Small Spoiler: We'll see Brendan again very soon.  


* * *

*A/N*: Sorry about the long delay. Was writing this on a borrowed computer, had to give it back, and lost all my notes. Always back up your data! We're back in business now, and updates should be more frequent.

 

Harry sent a message home with Georgia. She repeated it back to him three times before getting on the afternoon bus.

“Uncle Harry had a lovely afternoon, and invites you to dinner Sunday at 5:00.”

Harry kissed Georgia on the forehead and praised her recitation as the bus driver huffed impatiently. He waved as the bus pulled away, then meandered back up the road. 

On his way back to meet his cab, Harry ducked into a nearby alley and extracted the magical coin from his pocket. He sent the agreed-upon date, 1-3-1980, to Ron as confirmation that Georgia was safe and headed home. 

A smile tickled Harry’s lips, and he felt a sudden urge to skip and sing all the way back to the cab. Instead, he turned up the collar of his thick overcoat and hunched his shoulders, staring pointedly at the pavement. Exuberance was fine and dandy, but if he wanted to see Georgia at school again, Harry knew that he mustn’t draw any attention to himself.

There was plenty of time for Harry to navel gaze during the ride back to the village. His driver spoke more English this time, but seemed to sense that Harry was deep in thought. As the cab made its way out of the city and onto the dark, winding country roads leading to the village, Harry wondered at his earlier burst of elation.

Was it the successful outing with Georgia that had made him so happy? Harry felt somewhat disturbed by his excitement, convinced that it was in part due to the risk he’d taken in entering London undisguised. He didn’t want to become fond of taking risks with Georgia. The city outings would have to stop if there was ever a question as to whether or not Georgia was safe. Harry knew that, but knew with just as much surety that he’d need to remind himself of this daily if his visits to Georgia were to continue. He couldn’t afford to get sloppy.

But Harry already had gotten sloppy, as he well knew. He’d been too friendly with Brendan, forgotten parts of his story, and agreed to send a letter to a man he barely knew. What if Brendan was a Ministry spy, and recognized Harry’s handwriting? Stupid, stupid, stupid, Harry chided himself.

“Fool,” said the treacherous, oily memory of Snape that served as a voice for Harry’s insecurities. “Did you think the possibility of a friendship was worth risking revealing your identity? Are you that starved for attention, that a smile and a kind word from a stranger reduce you to a quivering heap?”

“It’s not like that!” Harry didn’t realize he’d screamed aloud until he felt the driver’s hand jiggle his knee.

“I think you was having a bad dream,” drawled the cab driver quietly. “Happens a lot on long journeys.”

Harry looked down, cheeks hot. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He wasn’t sure whether or not the driver really thought Harry had been asleep, but in either case, was grateful for the ready explanation for his shouting.

“Nah, it’s all right. Go back to sleep. I can wake you when we get there.” The cab driver glanced briefly back at Harry, who recognized pity in the older man’s eyes.

There was silence for a long time. Harry felt the driver’s eyes on him from time to time as he stared out the window and tried to avoid thinking of Severus Snape.

“Can I ask you something?” asked the driver.

“As far as I can tell, you just did,” said Harry.

The driver chuckled. “You a wise ass, huh?”

Harry gave half a smile. He hadn’t really intended to be witty.

“Listen, you a veteran?”

The driver’s eyes were visible in the rearview mirror, clear, dark, and steady.

“Why do you ask?” Harry carefully kept his voice raspy and level.

“I got a little brother who was in the military. Served two tours of active duty. He came back, you know, not so good in the head.” The driver turned briefly to look directly at Harry. “He used to have some pretty bad flashbacks.”

Harry knew to what the driver—Mickey, according to the license displayed in the cab—was referring. As Harry had suspected, Mickey didn’t really believe that Harry was simply having a nightmare when he screamed. 

With a forced cough, Harry said, “No, I was never in the Army. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh,” said Mickey. A pause, and then, “Well, you remind me some of my brother. Not in looks, of course, but other things. My brother, Sam, he went to a head doctor for a while, and he’s doing a lot better now.”

“Thanks for your concern,” said Harry through gritted teeth, and stared pointedly out the window, ending the conversation. He was angry, and it made him even angrier to know that Mickey was right. The most infuriating of all was the knowledge that no “head doctor” could ever begin to understand what made Harry tick.

Only one person had ever come close to understanding the darkest twists and turns of Harry’s battered mind, and he was stone cold dead, thought Harry bitterly. 

Georgia’s unconditional love would have to suffice in lieu of a friend, an enemy, or a single person on Earth who would know why Harry was so broken. It was a burden he knew he shouldn’t place on her small shoulders. Yet, he did, unfair though it was, because it was the only thing keeping Harry from throwing himself to the wolves lurking in his mind.


	10. In Which Harry Is Hot Under the Collar

  
Author's notes: Harry experiences some confusing feelings when, against his better judgment, he decides to write to Brendan.

Still no beta, mistakes all mine. Reviews appreciated as always. Still my first fanfic, warnings still for later chapters (although we're getting closer...)  


* * *

Harry spent the rest of his journey in silent self-loathing. He tried to ignore Mickey’s presence, but couldn’t help feeling the cabbie’s eyes on him from time to time. When he finally reached the village, Harry paid quickly, tipped Mickey, and fled into the night without another word. 

When he was certain that the cab was out of sight, Harry stopped to catch his breath. He’d jogged down Main Street and, looking up, saw that he now stood outside a small pub. Cheery lanterns twinkled in its windows. Inside, he saw ruddy, laughing faces gathered around the bar and tables.

It was a sign, Harry decided. He’d stay in the village for the night. After all, it wasn’t terribly safe to hitchhike at night. Harry pushed open the double doors of the Queen’s Arms Inn and drew his overcoat close as he strode up to the bar.

The barman noticed the newcomer immediately. “Get you a pint, mate?” asked he.

“No thank you,” said Harry, recovering the manners he’d forgotten when leaving Mickey’s cab. “I just need a room for the night. Have you any available?”

“Yeh. We got a couple left,” said the barkeep. Motioning for Harry to follow him, he walked up a rickety, wooden staircase.

The inn’s second floor was warm and welcoming. Harry could hear the conversation and laughter from the pub below, but that suited him just fine. The racket was joyful and comforting. Harry followed the barkeep to the third room in the hall. 

“It’s thirty quid for the night,” said the barman.

Harry forked over the cash and was ushered into a small, homey room. Glancing around, Harry found that the room contained a small bed covered in a patchwork quilt that looked homemade, a nightstand with an alarm clock, and a worn, rectangular rug. Instinctively, he explored the room further, checking for listening stones and Muggle spying devices. His investigation uncovered only a Bible in the top drawer of the nightstand.

Satisfied, Harry kicked off his shoes and stripped to his skivvies. As he wormed his way between the covers and felt the cool, smooth sheets surround him, he immediately felt exhausted. The emotional roller coaster of his visit to London had left him so worn down that the moment Harry’s head hit the pillow, all his anxieties floated away. His slumber was peaceful and dreamless.

The next morning, Harry woke feeling refreshed and impulsive. The previous night’s discomfort was gone, replaced by anticipation. He hoped Ron and Hermione would accept his dinner invitation. As he dressed, Harry mentally rehearsed what he’d say to them, and pondered possible menus.

Harry wandered down to the pub and ordered a sandwich and a cup of tea. It was early still. He had time to wander the village, purchase some groceries for Sunday, and still arrive at his cabin before dark.

On the way to the greengrocer’s shop, Harry found himself turning in at the post office. Against his better judgment, he signed up for a Post Office box in the name of H.J. Granger. Harry prepaid six months’ rent on the PO Box, and purchased stationery, stamps, and a pen.

Outside, Harry sat down and set to composing a letter to Brendan. Though he knew it was risky to write by hand at all, he did wear gloves and disguise his handwriting by using his left hand.

_“Dear Mr. Fengel,_

_I don’t yet know when I’ll return to see Georgia at Knightsley, but I decided to write so that you’ll have an address where you can reach me. I don’t get into town much, but I’ll check this box soon. I’m hoping to get time away to visit Georgia in about two weeks._

_If you’re not too busy then, perhaps we could meet at the park and let Serena and Georgia play together for a little while? I wouldn’t like to be responsible for Serena’s missing an afternoon of learning, but if Serena has time during her lunch period and you’re permitted to take her off campus for lunch, we could meet then and bring lunch for the girls at the park._

_I’ll write when I know more. Once again, it was very nice meeting you, and I hope we’ll be able to work something out for Serena and Georgia to see each other again soon._

_Sincerely,  
HG.”_

As Harry signed his assumed initials to the note, he felt a curious, warm feeling creeping over him. It reached his lips and tweaked them into a shy smile. Harry, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, removed his right glove and brushed a finger quickly over Brendan’s name before slipping his letter into an envelope.

Harry put his glove back on and took extra care to disguise his penmanship as he addressed the envelope, copying from Brendan’s business card. He pressed a stamp to the envelope—self stick, of course—and dropped the letter in the collection slot at the door to the post office. 

The funny warmth stayed with Harry while he bought groceries for Sunday. Several times as he shopped, he stuck a hand in his trouser pocket and drew his fingers across the embossed letters on Brendan’s business card. Harry told himself he was only checking to be sure he hadn’t dropped the card, but privately he wasn’t at all sure why he was behaving so strangely. He only knew that, if the pleasant feeling surrounding him threatened to subside, holding the business card in his hand brought it back, a bubble of comfort and acceptance protecting Harry from fear.


	11. In Which Harry Gets Chills

  
Author's notes: Harry takes a renewed interest in his appearance, and prepares a meal for four.  


* * *

On Sunday morning, Harry rose early. He hadn’t heard anything from Ron and Hermione, but, to be fair, he hadn’t left any sort of instructions on contacting him to accept or decline his dinner invitation. The DA coins were useful, but he knew neither Ron nor Hermione would want to simply send a message that wasn’t in any sort of code, and they’d only agreed upon a numerical code relating to Harry’s outing with Georgia.

Still, he couldn’t sleep. Just after dawn, he rose and paced restlessly about his kitchen, checking and double-checking that all the ingredients he’d purchased were still where he had left them. Finally, he tore himself away from fussing over meal plans, and strode barefoot down to the shore.

Harry shivered as he made his way toward the lake. The air held a biting chill, and the first tentative rays of the morning sun did little to combat the cold. Goosebumps stood out on Harry’s arms, and his teeth chattered.

He knelt at the shore and removed his shirt. Quickly, before he became too chilled to wash at all, Harry splashed frigid water on his face, neck, and chest. He removed a straight razor and a can of shaving cream from his trouser pocket. He’d become accustomed to shaving without a proper mirror over the past four years, realizing that a nick or two wasn’t likely to be remarked upon by the fish or the tomatoes.

However, today, he wanted to look respectable. Harry walked along the shore until he reached a spot where the water was smooth as glass and he could see his reflection. He shaved, careful to remove every piece of stubble without cutting his face. Satisfied, Harry splashed himself again and watched dots of shaving cream float away on the ripples in the lake.

Harry sat, shivering, until the water calmed itself. He’d concerned himself so rarely with his own appearance since moving to the cabin that he wondered how he’d changed. Sure, he’d used a mirror to look at himself in the dressing room when he bought clothes for his visit to London, but that was to choose clothes for “Uncle Harold Granger,” who was supposed to look as unlike Harry as possible without the use of magic.

What did Harry Potter look like? Harry could hardly remember. When the lake was mirror-smooth again, he stood and scrutinized his reflection for what felt like the first time in his adult life.

He was more tan than he’d expected. Weekends playing in the lake with Georgia had put some color in his skin, even though the sky was nearly always cloudy. It looked good on him, thought Harry, except that it made the thin, white scars on his chest stand out more. He wondered if Georgia had ever noticed them. If she had, she hadn’t asked any questions.

Harry was thin, thinner than he’d been at school, but not as gaunt as he was during his summers with the Dursleys. His hands were knobby and sinewy. They looked out of place: A working man’s hands, not a wizard’s hands, realized Harry when he caught himself staring at them. His biceps, too, were more developed than they’d been during the years when he carried a wand.

He looked next at his face. It was still surprising not to see his scar. He smoothed a finger over his forehead, admiring the concealment prohibiting him from even feeling the lightning bolt. He sometimes wondered if he’d somehow actually removed it rather than concealed it when he fled. He wasn’t about to remove the charm and find out.

Harry’s hair was as unkempt as he remembered it. Perhaps even more so, since he’d been cutting it himself every few weeks, also without the aid of a mirror. Harry knelt to look more closely at his face.

His eyes were still curse-green. He’d wondered if they would change when the piece of Voldemort’s soul inside him was destroyed, but it seemed they were truly his mother’s eyes, not just a side effect of his status as a Horcrux. There was something different about them, though, thought Harry. His eyes were cautious, haunted, flitting back and forth even as he tried to stare at his own reflection. Harry knew that if someone spent enough time gazing into his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to hide his inner turmoil and paranoia.

It was a good thing, then, that nobody but Georgia ever gazed into his eyes, Harry reflected. 

Brendan sprang uninvited into Harry’s thoughts. What if Brendan looked closely at Harry’s hollow cheeks and darting eyes? The cabbie had pegged Harry as a damaged veteran by looking at him in a rearview mirror. It wasn’t unlikely that Brendan would know something was wrong if he spent too much time looking at Harry.

Harry watched his reflection and saw the tips of his ears redden as the image of Brendan looking him in the face flowered in his mind, despite Harry’s efforts to think of something less worrisome. He rubbed his ears, willing the blush and the uncomfortable thoughts precipitating it to go away.

Harry’s lips were turning blue by the time he stood and walked back inside. He climbed back in bed until he stopped shivering, then rose again, combed his hair, dressed, and set to preparing a meal for four.

He’d decided upon a stir-fry, with tofu, beef, bell peppers, onions, and mushrooms, to be served with soba noodles and a Thai peanut sauce. It was his own recipe, developed while cooking for the Dursleys. Even Petunia had once admitted it was “passable.”

Harry enjoyed cooking. It was, in fact, the only thing he ever missed about his former “home” on Privet Drive. Cooking for one wasn’t as rewarding, and, save for the recent meal of fish and chips, Harry hadn’t cooked for guests other than Georgia since moving to the cabin. It was difficult to prepare meals without proper kitchen appliances, but the propane stove and wood-burning oven performed as well as could be expected.

Although Harry started cooking well before noon, he was no longer accustomed to preparing complex meals, and it took him three tries to get the peanut sauce right with the propane stove’s irregular heat. When it finally came out correctly, just spicy enough, smooth, no lumps, he set it aside and started on the stir-fry and noodles. These were simpler, and tasted right the first time.

Harry set up the table and set four places. He served a portion of stir-fry and some noodles to each plate, with a small dish of peanut sauce to the side, so each person could use as much or as little as they wanted. Lacking a proper centerpiece, he looked in the closet and found a large, lopsided paper crane, folded by Georgia with Harry’s help from a piece of wrapping paper. He set it in the center of the table. It seemed somewhat appropriate, given the Asian theme of the meal.

As Harry covered the plates, right on time at five minutes until five, he let his thoughts wander. What if it was possible to find some sort of permanent disguise and get a job in London, where he could see Georgia more often? He could be a chef, or a waiter, or be a waiter first and work his way up to being a chef. It had to be possible to make something like a Polyjuice potion, but with multiple hairs to mix different people and create someone totally new.

Harry sighed. It might be possible, but it was certain that Harry wasn’t skilled enough at Potions to even consider attempting it. Even Hermione only excelled at Potions about as much as she excelled in every other subject—it was no specialty of hers, and if it was, she wouldn’t help him, Harry was sure. The only person he could have asked to research such a potion was gone. Not that Snape would have been any more inclined to help Harry with a…

“…A hare-brained, ill thought out, and dangerous plan to imbibe an experimental potion using expensive and rare ingredients, with no plan for dealing with the side effects should it fail?” supplied the imagined voice of Snape, articulating once again Harry’s self-flagellating thoughts.

A knock on the door interrupted Harry’s reverie.

“Coming!” he shouted, although it was hardly necessary, as the door was a mere eight steps or so from the kitchen.


	12. In Which Harry Gets Toasty

  
Author's notes: Georgia reaches an important milestone; Harry has been saving something special to celebrate.  


* * *

As soon as Harry opened the door, all he saw was bouncing red curls. Georgia leapt straight at Harry, knowing from experience he’d catch her, and wrapped her arms tight around his neck. Harry silently thanked Merlin for his Seeker’s reflexes, and peered around the child’s head to find Ron and Hermione exchanging perplexed looks. 

Harry ruffled Georgia’s ringlets and set her down. 

“Please, come in.” He ushered Ron and Hermione into the kitchen. “I’ve just served dinner. May I take your coats and hats?” 

Hermione nodded absently and handed Harry her wool coat and bowler hat. Harry scratched his head. Hermione was overdressed for the cold, but that wasn’t unusual. Her vacant expression was. Ron, too, seemed lost in thought, handing Harry his jacket and taking a seat without a further word. 

Harry scratched his head, shrugged, and sat down. Georgia was already digging into her meal with gusto. Harry noticed that he wasn’t the only adult at the table sitting and watching Georgia eat. Ron and Hermione, too, were staring at her without touching their own food. 

After a few minutes, Harry had a sudden realization. 

“Georgia?” he said. 

“Yes, Unca?” she asked around a mouthful of soba noodles. 

“I think I saw a toad in the garden earlier. Would you check and see if it’s still there for me?” It was a transparent excuse, but Harry knew that Georgia’s fondness for toads would prevent her from arguing, even though she was in the middle of a meal. 

The small redhead jumped from her seat and dashed out the door, slamming it behind her. Harry waited a few breaths, then, in hushed tones, he spoke. 

“That was it, huh?” 

Hermione and Ron jumped simultaneously, as if jolted out of a trance. Hermione opened her mouth, looking somewhat like a goldfish, and then shut it again. Ron rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. 

“The first time?” 

Ron nodded again. 

“She was standing several feet behind us, staring at the lake, until the door opened,” said Hermione finally. “And then she didn’t move. She was just… in your arms. Just like that.” 

Harry smiled and lowered his voice further. “I guess she’s a witch after all.” 

At long last, Ron allowed himself the grin he’d been holding back since entering the house. “Guess she is, Harry. Not that there was ever much doubt, but you know, never can tell…” 

Hermione, taking her cue from Ron, beamed. “All the mothers in the playgroup who have older children, too, talked about it, but I guess nothing really prepares you completely for watching a little one’s first magic.” She wiped her eyes and gave a little hiccup. 

Harry stood and peered out the kitchen window. Georgia was outside, peeking under the leaves of Harry’s pumpkin vines for her toad. Satisfied that she remained occupied, Harry reached into the kitchen’s single high cupboard and removed a bottle of champagne. 

“Toast?” he offered. “I’m afraid I have no champagne flutes. Just some mugs.” 

Ron laughed. “I can’t say I’d expect champagne flutes in this cabin. But then, what do you have champagne here for, anyway?” 

Harry handed the bottle to Ron. “Read the gift tag,” he said softly. “It’s still attached.” 

“To Harry Potter,” read Ron aloud, “On the occasion of a most remarkable sacrifice, a courageous victory, and several tragic losses. Drink it in good health. From Minerva McGonagall, who is today a very proud Head of Gryffindor House.” 

Hermione gave a loud gulp, then a very artificial cough, and fled to Harry’s cramped bathroom, yelping something about spice in the stir fry making her eyes water. Ron and Harry looked after her, and exchanged bemused glances. 

“There’s nothing spicy in the stir fry,” whispered Harry. “But don’t let on that you know.” 

Ron chucked under his breath. He stood, walked to Harry’s side, and clapped his old school chum on the shoulder. “You sure you want to open this? Besides being the most expensive drink I’ve laid eyes on since I got the Order of Merlin, it’s kind of emotional remembering the battle, isn’t it?” 

A loud pop was Harry’s answer as he uncorked the bottle. The cork flew across the room, hit the coat closet, and settled somewhere near Georgia’s cot. Harry rubbed the back of his neck nervously, muttering something about his first time opening champagne. 

By the time Hermione reappeared, Harry had poured what seemed like an appropriate amount of champagne into three mugs. Judiciously pretending not to notice Hermione’s puffy eyes, he handed her a blue mug with “World’s Best Uncle” on the side. 

Ron and Harry each took a mug of champagne and settled back into their seats around the dinner table. Harry cleared his throat. 

“To Georgia Granger-Weasley’s first magic,” he said. 

They clinked mugs, then drank. 

Ron offered a second toast. “To the newest Gryffindor!” 

“Don’t assume,” cautioned Hermione, but she clinked again and drank again anyway. 

They sat grinning and savoring the taste of the bubbly for a few long moments. Harry finally broke the silence, loath though he was to interrupt the most comfortable, celebratory moment they’d had as a group since he moved to the cabin. 

“I’m sorry if this brings the mood down,” began Harry, “But while Georgia’s outside, can we discuss my visiting her again sometime?”


End file.
